


Paris and Environs, 2-7 November 1637

by Anima Nightmate (faithhope)



Series: All For One At War [31]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aftermath, BAMF Constance, Banter, Bodging Early Modern Criminal Justice Procedure, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Conspiracy, Early Modern Era, Face Punching, Franco-Spanish War, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Horseback Riding, Horses, Non-Linear Narrative, Original Character Death(s), Politics, Pretentious, Public Humiliation, Scheming, Some Historical Fudging, Thirty Years War, Wartime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:33:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24913165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithhope/pseuds/Anima%20Nightmate
Summary: There is a chain that has been forged, link-by-link, across a continent and beyond, over years, sometimes over generations. It has been crafted from resentment and jealousy and a genuine desire for peace. And today someone else has their hand on it and has started to pull. Hard.*Another installment in the long series of pieces based around the black box that is the Musketeers during the Spanish War.Note: Graphic Violence tag for chapter 4, and is very much canon-typical.
Relationships: Constance & Original Male Character(s), Constance & Treville, Louis XIII de France & de Tréville (Trois Mousquetaires), Lucien Grimaud & Feron, Marcheaux & Tréville
Series: All For One At War [31]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1137809
Comments: 16
Kudos: 5





	1. Présent

#### 5 November 1637: early morning, Paris

 _For those who know_ intimately _the times between times, it is well-known that there are_ degrees _of twilight. The poets talk of the_ crepusculine _hours, but for many people the important distinction does not need a name so much as a curse and a candle, or a fervent wish that the birds would cease their infernal,_ impertinent _din._

 _Those who say that the darkest hour is just before the dawn know that dawn is an intricate process that_ ends _with sunrise. Or are merely adept at repeating truisms without much in the way of voluntary thought._

_And whether dawn means Get Up or Go To Bed has a great deal to say about your lifestyle, chosen or otherwise._

_And now, see: in the grand streets, with their new lampposts, extinguished or fading in this final phase of twilight (which can be understood as the point at which the sun is still below the horizon but one can read a set of written orders clearly without any further illumination), the world holds its breath, the faint clatter clear for those who serve, awake to hear it, the residents having fallen into bed not an hour or so since, laughing, breathless, sodden, or strangely sober. Some of them are even in their own beds, for a wonder…_

_In the corridors of the Louvre, there is an air of movement recently departed, sparse dust swirling in the wake of decisive action. The Louvre waits, too, though not as hungrily as the depths of the Bastille and the Châtelet, where space has been made available._

_And across the river, in poorer, harder streets, someone is raising a fist, resistant to the poetry of the time, half an eye out of the window, waiting for that moment that holds Paris tight, its grip extending to Blois, Dampierre and Soissons, and from there Spain, Flanders, and England, the threads tugged taut, quivering in the ante-aurora–_

“The what?”

He sighs. “The _ante-aurora_ , the moment before sunrise. I– there’s not really a name for it, so I was trying to construct one.”

He arches a brow. “Right. Go on.”

He takes a breath, opens his mouth, and stops, turns reproachful eyes on him. “I feel somewhat out of rhythm now.”

He scratches his head. “Sorry.” He does not, he’ll concede, _sound_ sorry.

“Hmm.”

“So everyone’s in place.”

The Marquis side-eyes him again, says, drily: “Yes.”

“All them nobles.” He leans back in his chair, feels his mouth slant. “Who’d have thought it?”

“Quite.”

“Already lined up, already connected, all they needed was a couple of little…” he demonstrates, two-handed: “pushes.”

“It’s all meshed like clockwork.”

“Quite the miracle, after all.”

They laugh together for that, raise their glasses. _After all_ – it’s the end of a long night, the sun rises, and Feron’s new day is dawning.

*

He is wrong about one thing: Constance is not about to knock on the door of the cadets’ dormitory. She is cursing herself mildly for not arranging the shifts differently, but there it is: she just couldn’t bring herself to put him on at night. So now she’s lifting the latch to creep into the room he shares with eight other lads from the beginning of the alphabet, threading her way between the cots, gritting her teeth for the intrusion, to crouch down by his bedside and shake him gently, murmuring his name urgently.

“Mmh?” He wakes enviably quickly. “Mmh. Madame?”

“I need you to get dressed and come downstairs immediately. I’ll see you in the courtyard. You have five minutes. Move it.”

“But–”

“You know how much I dislike that word, cadet. Don’t make me tell you this a third time: get your clothes on and get moving.”

“Y-yes, Madame.”

She hears sleepy queries as soon as she’s closed the door, closes her eyes for a long moment, a deep breath, gathering strength, and hurries down the corridor to the stairs, and then to the courtyard, where the cold strikes her for a moment until she pulls her cloak more snugly around her and tugs on her gloves.

She’s beginning to wonder whether she has time to fetch her scarf when he stumbles somewhat into view looking pale and so, so young.

It’s not the time to be thinking that.

“Madame?” His eyes are flicking about the courtyard, trying to put the numbers together but his sums failing him.

She sighs. It’s time. “Cadet, stand to attention.”

He does. He’s got that down, anyway.

“These men are here from Minister Tréville. You will need to go with them.”

“I– Wh–?”

“ _Eyes front, cadet!_ ”

He stiffens, complies. She takes a step back, deliberately hardening her heart as she gestures to the man from the Palace with the orders. He nods to her, checks his paper, bends his eye on the willowy youth in front of him. “François Armand Henri de la Croix, Chevalier de Trianon, you are hereby arraigned on charges of conspiracy to treason. We must relieve you of your arms and take you with us to the Bastille Saint-Antoine, pending trial. Do you understand?”

“I– Yes– No! No, I d– Madame!” His face turns wildly to hers and she finds herself clenching one fist behind her back.

“Best do as they say, cadet,” she says, amazed to find how neutral she sounds. High above, various windows flicker into gaping faces and nudges.

“But–”

“ _Now_ , cadet.”

“M-my father. He–”

“Your father will be informed. You have to go now, de la Croix.”

“Your weapons, sir,” says the man whose name has, to her shame, entirely slipped her memory.

De la Croix has, of course, as always, armed himself meticulously. Even when he knows he’ll have to discard them for training, he always has his swordbelt cinched, beautiful blades perfectly aligned. Serge has been known to remark that he pities whichever noble maiden the Petit Chevalier is foisted upon, “for ’e’ll spend more time cleanin’ and sharpenin’ than ’e’ll ever spend on polishin’ _her_ – ow!” So she shouldn’t find herself surprised when, as the sword is taken from him, his knees buckle and he plummets to the ground before anyone can catch him, kneeling, head low and arms limp at his sides.

The leader and one of his two men stoop in and haul the lad to his feet, but not before a gasp rings out from where two cadets are staring, great-eyed in the doorway behind him. She scowls and waves them away, but it’s far too late, and all she has space to hope is that all the work they’ve done in focusing their minds will have them turning out to training with a will, less than a week to go before they’re to be paraded.

Christ Almighty and all his Blessèd Saints, this nonsense is the last thing she needs right now, but here’s duty, waiting for her. Within moments, the bell is being rung for breakfast, and she is heading out of the gate with a couple of warm rolls and some cheese to bolt down, wrapped in her scarf and someone else’s purpose, on the way to the next of her many appointments.

*

Across the city and in a number of residences across France, people are being pulled from their beds as dawn cracks and peace is shattered by thumping doors and frantic clatterings. Drawers and cupboards are ransacked, people shackled, and many led away. Some – a very few, by virtue of age or other infirmity – are granted leave by their parole, but, to their astonishment, are confined to their homes by armed guards who seem uninterested in bribery or cajoling. People whose names have commanded instant complicity for generations are patiently and politely told that their orders come from the Minister for War, acting on the King’s command, and that there will be no exceptions.

Letters are ferried, securely and, in some cases, in bulk to the First Minister’s offices, where his secretary and a small team of translators have already started the task of collating every chain of correspondence between the watchful ladies, the sharp-tongued gentlemen, the fretting intellectuals, and those who want to see their names restored to former glory. The chains link pacifists and bullies alike; old money, new money, and no money; Catholic, Calvinist, and atheist; and the links are being dug up and dragged to this central point.

And out in the streets, amidst all this outrage and professional stubbornness, runs a ragged child, seeking a woman bearing the fleur-de-lis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are [terms for the degrees of twilight](https://www.timeanddate.com/astronomy/different-types-twilight.html), which make a big appearance in my Original Novel, which may get finished sometime this decade, you never know… However, those terms are relatively recent, so Feron had to get creative. The period of dawn he’s attempting to describe is [Civil Twilight](https://www.timeanddate.com/astronomy/civil-twilight.html), i.e. the surprisingly bright time before the sun rises. The other two are [Nautical Twilight](https://www.timeanddate.com/astronomy/nautical-twilight.html) and [Astronomical Twilight](https://www.timeanddate.com/astronomy/astronomical-twilight.html).


	2. Passé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations, preparations.

####  **Three Days Ago: afternoon, The Louvre Palace, Paris**

“And there can be no doubt?”

“No, Minister.”

“You understand, Marcheaux – with something of this… gravity, I need to be absolutely–”

“That’s understood, sir.”

“You trust him?”

He scoffs before he can stop himself. “Sorry, sir. No – not really, but I believe him on this. He hasn’t the wit to make stuff up, and he was able to take us to the house and show us where the man was staying, which we then confirmed.”

“And it’s him.”

“Yes.” He nods, face very sober. “It’s one of the men hired by the Marquis de Cinq-Mars. The Marquis has – forgive me if you know this already – been dividing his time between the Palace and his townhouse of late. The man and all but two of his colleagues stay there when the Marquis is at the Palace.” The Minister nods, face a study in tension.

After a deep breath, he says: “None of this proves that he’s the–” he shifts awkwardly, twisting as if to unstick something, face drawing down briefly on his left, and he’s familiar with that movement from the other side, as it were. “That he’s our suspect.”

“Well, it’s a start, sir. We can pick him up and you could identify him…”

“It was dark,” he mutters. It’s the first time he’s heard the Minister as anything other than certain of himself.

He blinks rapidly, then says: “But you heard his voice, yes?”

“Both their voices, yes.”

“Right.” Fuck. “Well, maybe the other was one of his other men.”

“Maybe so.” He sighs, his lips flattened and his gaze distant. He takes another deep breath and looks up at him. “When we take them in, we’ll deal with that. Tell me about your other preparations.”

Bright, cold panic slides through him and away on a breath. “Sir?”

“Thursday. The Red Guard is ready?”

He blinks hard. His eyes scroll over the ceiling as he marshalls lists. His gaze returns to Tréville. “We’ve divided the list you gave us. Everyone’s coming in, no exceptions, we’ll set out at six o’clock or sooner; everyone will be in place an hour before sunrise.” He hands over the plan, watches Tréville nod over it.

“An hour seems long. I don’t want them drawing attention to themselves.”

“No, sir. Each team has already assayed their designated location; they know where to conceal themselves. You can rely on us, sir.” He can’t help it, the eagerness bleeds through, but it seems that’s what the Minister is after, anyway.

A small smile crosses the man, only a little warmer than the grey, November light coming through the window behind him, nearly gone. “Very good. I’m glad I can rely on you, Marcheaux. My experiences with the Red Guard in the past… well,” he dismisses them with a short wave of his hand. “It’s good to let go of old notions, sometimes.” His smile grows broader. “If anything comes up in the meantime, let me know, but it sounds like you have everything under control at your end.” He heaves himself to his feet one-handed on a difficult breath, left arm tight to his side, twitches an absent-looking smile and heads around his desk, right hand outstretched. Marcheaux scrambles to his feet and reaches his own forward. Tréville shakes briefly but with an undiminished strength. He experiences a flicker of fear which he pushes down, clenching his own smile hard and nodding into sobriety again.

“I’ll see you on the other side of this.”

“Yes, sir. Let me know if… if there’s anything else we can do.”

“Of course.”

*

####  **Yesterday: morning, Louvre Palace, Paris**

“Answer me, Tréville – _what is going on?!_ ”

Tréville closes the door after the last servant, leaving only him and the King in the withdrawing room. He has positioned a guard (as unobtrusively as possible) outside the door and has asked Perrault to check that no-one is listening in from any other vantage point that might exist.

“Your Majesty, I need you to sit down and listen to me, very carefully.”

“Why?”

“Because I think you’ll want to be comfortable.” He keeps his tone low, trying to balance somewhere between soothing and commanding.

He can see the King scanning over potential risks in his head, starting with the Dauphin, he presumes, becoming increasingly perplexed, even while he at least takes the seat he’s been prescribed.

When he reaches the end of his internal list, he looks terrified, blinking rapidly. He swallows, looks up at him, asks: “What do you know?” in such a faint voice that he takes a moment to fully hear the words.

He takes a chair and pulls it closer to the King’s chaise.

“Sire, this is a matter of national security, and I need you to listen carefully to me.”

The king nods, white-faced, leant forward, hands clamped on the edge of the chaise, huge, dark eyes searching his face. Tréville is reminded of nothing so much as watching the sixteen-year-old Louis being told how the coup d’etat against his mother’s creatures must be carried out, and the realities of who must die. Feeling every minute of the extra years between then and now, he takes a deep breath, teeth gritting briefly for the renewed flare in his side, and relates to his King what they currently know of this conspiracy and who is involved. He is just drawing breath to tell him the intended actions of the next few days, when Louis, who had relaxed, then gone blank, appears to waken.

“My brother?”

“Yes.”

“Christ aid!” His jaw clenches. “If only that were a surprise. But–” he closes his eyes for a long moment, takes a deep breath. “Henri?” he asks, voice shaking only a little.

He nods. “The Marquis de Cinq-Mars is… heavily and, I’m sorry to say, incontrovertibly implicated, Majesty.”

The King wrenches his head to one side, eyes darting back and forth, nostrils flared, jaw clenched. “Am I for _ever_ ,” he says, through his teeth, “to be surrounded by treachery on _every_ side?! Mother, wife, brother, ministers, _lovers?!_ ” He surges to his feet and strides about the room, gesticulating, as Tréville dutifully stands. “It is _too much_ to ask, _apparently_ , that a King willing to do _so much_ for his country is _not_ undermined, betrayed, deceived, _poisoned_ , let alone that he might be supported and succoured. This… _This!_ This has– This _must stop!_ ”

“Majesty, please.”

“Please, _what_ , Tréville?!”

“I am going to ask you to come back to your seat and to lower your voice,” Louis’s face clenches in an abrupt leap of rage, and he pushes on, praying he’ll listen, “ _as we may yet_ be overheard by those who would betray us.”

“God!” Quieter: “Yes. Yes, you’re right. Yes.” He does not return immediately to the chaise, however, but paces, slower, fists clenched and eyes still searching the history rolling out in front of him on the polished floor. He takes a calming breath, coughs lightly into his fist, stares at it for a moment, and crosses the space at a slightly uneven pace to drop into his seat.

He sits and waits. After a while, the King turns his eyes up towards him, implores: “What do we do, Tréville?”

“Will your Majesty let me tell you what I have in mind?” He nods. “I could use your insight.”

The King gives him a look where gratitude and mild sarcasm mingle, but waves him on, content to collude in his own coddling, the feeling of being necessary to his own salvation.

“Our best weapon at the moment, to my mind, is that they do not appear to know that we know of their schemes,” he starts.

*

####  **Yesterday: early afternoon, Paris**

Perrault is sent with a verbal message to the garrisons of the King’s Musketeers, the Red Guard, the Swiss Guard, and the Life Guard – in short, a deliberate selection from those few regiments still maintaining a presence in Paris during the War. He also presents certain legal gentlemen of the city with the same sentence. Tréville carries the message himself to the captains of the Palace Guard and the Provost Guard.

The message is simply this: _All is in hand, we descend at sunrise._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of these chapters will be quite short (1000-2000 words or so; Ch4 somewhat longer), but I’ll keep them coming that way.


	3. Imparfait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flight and fall.

#### 5 November 1637: morning, Paris

The Superintendent of Finances is staring down, forefinger curved over his mouth, at the scheme laid out on the large table in the First Minister’s conference room. A rough map of half the continent (plus England) dominates, somewhat out of proportion in order to accommodate the evidence of the conspirators. Lines cross and recross borders and seas (a small, but significant, pile of correspondence at the left of the map sits in the Atlantic and represents those whose positions – and holdings – in the New World have made them so attractive (and attracted) to the cabal). Tréville watches him carefully. His choice not to include the Superintendent in the planning of this will doubtless have repercussions, which he is hoping will be balanced off by his inclusion at this stage where all other Ministers are being held in as much ignorance as any other whispering noble wondering at the to-and-fro (where they have not been made a very heavily constricted part of it). Bouthillier is very nearly as hard to read, when he wishes to be, as his former patron, Richelieu, and Tréville is banking on the man’s enviable reputation for fairness and amiability to win through.

The Superintendent takes a deep breath, shifting his hand to his hip and looking up at Tréville. “And Gaston?” he asks, and Tréville waits, face neutral. “Who is going to him?”

Tréville lifts a small smile his way. “Bellavoix.”

“The advocate?”

He nods. “And a troop of Provost Guards. Along with everyone else, they were instructed to make themselves known to conspirators at sunrise precisely.”

“And what is to be done – my apologies, what _has_ been done there?”

Tréville nods again, a curt acknowledgement. “The Palace at Blois is to be searched for letters if he will not hand over his part of the correspondence willingly. He is to be confined again to Blois for the foreseeable future, and this time his parole will not be so… confidently accepted.”

Bouthillier makes a regretful moue. Takes a deep breath. “For my part in this I am thoroughly sorry.” Tréville must look startled as he continues in an almost soothing manner: “It was I, as you must know, who effected the partial reconciliation between the two brothers.” Ah. And… “And I must make it clear that–”

“We know, sir – no suspicion is attached to you. Or your son.”

The Superintendent relaxes a small but significant notch. A similarly sized smile flickers on him, which Tréville answers in kind. A clerk, apologetically but firmly, moves between them to place another couple of letters in a strategic place and bustles off. The door opens to let the courier out and another in with her own stack.

“And… Hmm.”

Tréville waits.

“The Marquis de Cinq-Mars…?” The unfinished question hovers delicately and is everything Tréville has come to expect from the man.

“The King feels his involvement the most keenly, I think.” They stare at the map in mutual discomfort and Tréville lifts his gaze a little to see Bouthillier’s shifting along the paths laid out between various – so many – mansions, palaces, and courts. Paris swells quite out of proportion with the rest, _pregnant with conspiracy_ he thinks, startling himself with such a phrase, shaking his head.

To cover his mild embarrassment, he looks about the room – everyone is deeply engaged in their work, murmuring together, making notes, pointing things out and debating placements. He feels a surge of pride then, despite it being such a filthy thing they’re dredging here so meticulously.

Through the bustle he spots Marcheaux arriving in his outer room, with a face like thunder. Excusing himself to the Sieur, he steps through, closing the door behind him, into the relative quiet. “Well?”

“Gone,” he says, not quite meeting his eye, jaw tight.

He feels his brows rise. “Gone?”

The man huffs in frustration, reaches to his hair. “At least an hour. We arrived as planned, but no-one knew where he or his guards were to be found.”

“All?”

Marcheaux frowns. The Minister almost looks as though he’s smiling. “Yes: all of them.”

“All _five?_ ”

“I– I didn’t check. But there were none there, so… I assume so…?” He rakes his fingers through his hair again, spots the Minister watching him and snaps his hand back to his side.

“You searched the property, though.”

His lips clamp to his teeth in frustration before he can stop them. “Yes, sir. Thoroughly. Top to bottom, back to front. They weren’t there.”

“Right.” Marcheaux can hear the murmur of the inner room, where they’re picking over what has been brought them, no doubt. Outside the clatter and chatter of more arriving. “Right,” says Tréville, again, “you’ll need to get after him.”

“But we don’t know where he’s gone…”

The door bursts open behind them, contrary to his orders, followed by a fast clip of heels across the boards as it slams shut. He gets a tangled impression of dark red curls and brown leather before a piece of paper is slapped down on the desk. “Lyons,” says a high, hard voice. “He’s headed for Lyons.”

“How the _hell–?!_ ”

“Intelligence,” she says, shortly, barely looking at him, before turning back to Tréville. “Erwan got word to us.”

“Good lad,” beams the Minister.

“You’re _sure?!_ ”

She looks at him a little longer, gaze raking him head to hips, expression unimpressed. She blinks. “Yes,” she says, and turns back to the Minister, who is clearing papers to make way for a detailed map unfurled across it, one which appears to show the post roads of France. Tréville and the female bend in close over it, pinning the edges with improvised paperweights, and he feels the strangest stab at being shut out like this.

Fuck it. He leans in anyway.

“How did they find out?” she asks, eyes on the Minister’s finger tracing the most likely route, hands linked behind her for all the world like a soldier standing at ease.

Teeth gritted, he answers: “Someone must have peached.” The Minister’s eyes flick to him. “Sorry: leaked the information to them.”

The female looks at him sidelong. “One of your boys?”

His fist clenches. “If I find it’s any of my regiment, you may be sure that–”

“What about your informant?” asks Tréville.

He blinks slowly. “Jacques?” The woman starts slightly. “The little weasel. Yeah, maybe…” he says, slowly, an altogether less welcome suspicion forming. “I should… go and ask him… in case he knows something useful.”

She frowns. “We can’t waste time – catching them on the road is going to be easier than in Lyons. God knows where they’ll be holed up.”

“Couldn’t your,” he sneers, “ _informant_ give you more _intelligence?_ ”

She gives him a hooded glare. “He had moments to pass this on, get it to me. ‘Lyon’ is all we know.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Very useful.”

“Marcheaux, Madame,” says the Minister, steadily. “If you would – we rather need the Marquis apprehended?”

“Oh.”

“Of course.”

“Take one good man,” he tells him, “and this seal should get you the horses you need to speed you on.”

He reaches for it, but the peculiar woman takes and pockets it and he just nods with her, fist closing on air briefly.

As they turn, Tréville calls after them: “Keep them safe.”

“Of course,” she says.

Dismissing this as none of his business, he strides out of the Minister’s offices, gathering Lécuyer by eye as he does so. The waiting men with their letters and reports start to file into the Minister’s offices.

“Marcheaux?”

That fucking woman. “Yes?”

“Where are you going?”

“The stables. _For my horse_ ,” he tells her deliberately, moving in and leaning over her. Just fuck off.

She seems uncowed, just looks up at him coolly, eyebrow rising. “This way is quicker,” is all she says, pointing, and takes off to the right. Cursing, he and Lécuyer hurry after her, catching up at a side door he’s never seen before, let alone used, which leads to a bleak set of stone stairs.

Servants’ entrance. Right. And he’ll need that seal, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one as I finish off the next chapter.
> 
> According to Wikipedia, **[Claude Bouthillier](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Claude_Bouthillier), Sieur de Fouilletourte** "was a French statesman and diplomat. He held a number of offices, including Secretary of State and Superintendent of Finances, and distinguished himself in diplomacy throughout the 1630s, particularly in respect to France’s entry into the Thirty Years’ War." Another fascinating character skipped from the BBC’s depiction, but perfect for my purposes. I just wanted some names to fling around and look what I found instead! (Incidentally his son, Leon, wasn’t a patch on pater, and went on to be involved in some minor conspiracies after all, as well as the [Fronde](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fronde) (a much bigger and more initially successful set of rebellions after Louis’s death and the end of the War than the one I’ve bastardised here).)


	4. Conditional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Routes merge, paths diverge.

In the end she tells him: _Do what you like, but you’ll be riding the harder to catch up with me_ , and he grinds his teeth at that, but exchanges a hard look with his crony, whose name she’s yet to be granted, nods brusquely, and follows on.

It is hard going. Far harder than she dares to admit to him because, for all her increased stamina and strength, for all her learning how to bear particular types of physical pain, for all her learning – at Tréville’s insistence – how to ride properly, all that… the fact remains that she has not been riding much for all that long, and this – as she remembers from that wild flight to the Spanish border and back – is going to hurt. A lot.

She remembers one summer’s day at court, how she was nearly doubled with cramps, and yet managed to stay upright the whole time and kept a smile on her face. This is just that, and she is damned if she is going to show one moment of weakness to this… what did Serge say that time? Ah yes: _syphillitic dickblanket_. Once she’s back home, with no more people to send to gaol (she has no illusions that there will ever be _nothing to do_ , at least), she will draw herself the deepest, hottest bath she can manage, and soak in it until she’s entirely wrinkled, heat soaked through to her very core.

She’s just added a bottle of wine to this mental image when the road splits again, a couple of hours from Paris, and they lose a small amount of time in discussion (they’re already gambling that the Marquis will take the more direct route rather than one which goes via one of his conspirators – already arraigned – to the east) until the still-nameless guard points out that only one of these options is part of the post road. She and Marcheaux nod to each other and she gees her horse back into motion, clamping a groan deep in her chest.

They’ll need to change horses soon, so they can keep up this punishing pace. She cannot think about resting yet, though the notion of that big tub is tapping on her shoulder again. Hmm, or maybe find one of those bathhouses that caters to women and get someone to rub all the tension from her body while she’s at it.

This happy thought occupies her until the first decent post stop where she calls out to the Red Guards and veers to slow into the courtyard. An attendant trots up immediately to lead her blowing horse to the mounting block.

“Two questions.”

“Yes, Madame.” He looks alert. She hopes that’s accurate.

“Firstly,” she swings herself stiffly from her saddle, using his outstretched hand as a balancing aid, as Marcheaux and friend clatter around the corner, the former with what her uncle used to call _a cob on_ , face like sour milk, “do you have three fast horses you can furnish us with?” She digs in her pocket at the faltering look on his face and shows him Tréville’s seal. He sobers and straightens immediately, turning and shouting for assistance. Her instinct isn’t failing her, then. Good.

“I’ll check. Probably. Not a time of y– yes, we’ll check.”

“Good. Thank you. Secondly–”

“I thought we wanted to _make good time_ ,” sneers the Guard from on high.

“We need fresh horses and fresh information,” she tells him, turning straight back to the attendant. “Secondly: have any other fast riders come this way? There would have been six, at least. One nobleman, five guards, possibly more than that.”

He’s already nodding. “Yes.”

“Any of them with red hair?”

“Yes. The, er, the noble and one of the guards.”

She nearly sags in relief, instead nods crisply, asks: “When?”

He casts his eyes up in recollection, says: “Hard to be sure, but an hour maybe? Maybe less? I’d need to ask.”

An hour. We’ll need some luck. Hold on… “Did they get fresh horses?”

“Yes.”

“While ours are getting sorted, can you show me where theirs are?”

“Er, yes, Madame!”

“Good. I need that now, please.”

“Yes, Madame.”

She is obscurely pleased to see Marcheaux and his colleague moving almost as awkwardly as she feels. They’re likely very nearly as unused to riding as she is, being city-based in their roles, she remembers belatedly.

“Where are you going?” he calls out to her, and it doesn’t sound like he cares much about the answer.

“Following up a hunch,” she returns.

He scowls at her back, shifts foot to foot. As grooms and valets start to fuss around them like they were… well, sent by the First Minister, now he comes to think of it, the woman disappears into the further building, bustling like a bantam. Out of sight of her beady eye, he stretches – thoroughly and ruefully. It feels like a long while since he’s ridden at much more than a fast walk. Lécuyer stands, stolid as a statue. And he’s no more idea of his feelings on any of this than he would a statue either. Never known a man with such a gift for saying fuck-all. For once, he’d actually welcome an opinion, or a way to bounce ideas, but he’s stuck, despite being tempted to take off without her, unless he can get that seal off her and, even then, isn’t wild about the idea of explaining that to Tréville afterwards.

He’s just beginning to notice how hungry he is when she returns with a look of hard triumph on her. She catches his eye and nods her head.

He pushes his own forward, shaking it slightly. “What?”

Her expression fades into something like exasperation, but he thinks he can see fatigue at the edges of it. “We’re on the right track. We need to move fast, but our man will slow them down.”

“Our– your– what? _Who?_ ”

Her head cocks to one side with a slight smile and he’s beginning to think he’s never met a more infuriating set of mannerisms in his life. “Did you really think we’d let _him_ go without someone on the inside?” He feels himself go absolutely cold, knows that something’s revealed itself when her own face drops. “What?”

He deepens the grimace, rolls his shoulder back, seizes it with his other hand. “Sorry – old injury. You were saying?” He sounds rougher than he means to, throat tight, only hopes that the injury (real but currently quiet) covers anything.

She’s just opening her mouth when one of the grooms leads forward her replacement horse. She smiles her thanks, shoves something in her pocket, and says: “Erwan will slow them down.” At the frown on his face she adds: “Seznec. A Palace guard assigned to the Marquis. Oh,” she says, flapping a hand and turning to step onto the block, “you’ll know him when you see him, I’m sure.”

“Right,” he says, for want of something better. As the bustle intensifies around them again and she’s handed up to her saddle, he turns to glare meaningfully at Lécuyer, who shrugs. Fan-fucking-tastic. Lécuyer taps his pistol. Tempting. He shakes his head minutely, reaches for his replacement horse’s reins with a tight grimace of a smile for the groom.

Fuck.

Later he will wonder why he didn’t just ditch her, or even arrange an accident for her. When someone else rather pointedly asks him this, he replies that there was little time after all.

It turns out that it takes rather less than an hour to find the Marquis’s party.

*

“ _What_ is the delay?”

“We need to go, my Lord, we can’t–”

“ _I’ll_ decide when we go and when we stop, Rayne!”

“Yes, my Lord.” Rayne’s face goes studiously blank as his gaze crosses Erwan’s. It’s as good as a wink, and Erwan merely blinks at it, then scowls back at the post-horse’s leg.

“ _Well?!_ ”

He looks up at the Marquis with an embarrassed deference. “She’s coming up lame but I can’t find anything obvious. I can’t get her to lift her foot to check the shoe. Sorry.”

The Marquis tuts loudly, turns through the loose circle of guards. “Do any of you have the right experience?” A muttered round of negatives. “I will give you five further minutes. Everyone else, take this as a break. _You_ ,” he points, “will be left behind if you can’t move on by then.”

“Yes, my Lord,” he murmurs, nodding seriously. He’s already gained nearly ten, and he’s fairly sure he can stretch those five minutes by a few more, and then they’ll need to get back into the saddle, and Meunier is bound to have a pipe he needs to put out, which is a lot of further faff, and at least one of them will have gone to sleep, so basically he’s got fifteen minutes before going to the alternative plan if the Minister’s men don’t catch up with them.

And he’s just starting to make noises about how he just needs to give her leg a bit of a rub and it’ll be okay when he hears hooves coming fast from behind them. He catches Rayne’s eye, feels his own heart-rate climb. This has to be it. So few riders out fast on a dank November day like this, let alone in groups. The rest of the group have noticed and Meurnier’s pipe’s been knocked from his hand by the Marquis, who is screaming everyone towards their horses.

“Hold in the name of the law!” comes roaring from the lead horseman and Erwan feels a surge of something like relief go through him, whipping both primed pistols from his belt and pointing them at the Marquis and Meurnier, who goes stock-still. The Marquis just looks outraged, reaches immediately for his sword, then fumbles for his own pistol until Rayne says:

“I really wouldn’t, my Lord.” He’s got one on Gagnon, whose face is slowly tightening with rage, arms rising, and the other on the one whose name he can never remember, who’s still sitting on the ground, having only made it halfway up from slumber.

“Don’t reach for it! I said _don’t!_ ” yells the horseman.

_What?!_

Then he hears a familiar voice screaming “Marcheaux, _no!_ We need them _alive!_ ” and it’s all he can do to keep his aim steady as the hoofbeats get closer; surely he won’t–

And the shot rings out. Shots. Jesus! And in his side vision Gagnon goes down. And suddenly there are three panting horses and a very serious-looking arquebus being pointed at the Marquis by a man on horseback as the other dismounts.

Constance flings herself out of the saddle and runs to the downed man’s side, stripping her gloves off as she goes and throwing them to the ground. Erwan skids to drop at her side.

“It’s bad.”

“I know,” she says, absently, starting to undo the bravo’s clothes then, cursing, takes her main gauche and slits through each layer until she can get to the wound.

“Christ,” he mutters.

She takes a deep breath through her nose. “Look, just put pressure on there.”

He eyes her. “Pressure?”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” She rips off her scarf and stuffs it down hard onto the wound, ignoring the gurgling whimper this produces with a clench of the jaw. She seizes Erwan’s hands and presses them against the bundle. “Like that. Keep it there, for the love of God.”

“It’s too late,” he insists, but presses anyway, lips in a pale, straight line.

“What’s his name?”

“Gagnon. Er, Jean-Pierre. Constance, why are you bothering?”

“Because we _need_ him to prove– what? Jean-Pierre? Speak up!”

The man’s eyes are rolling. A cracked, dry sound whispers from his throat as his lips meet and part, meet and part. _Ma… Ma-ma-ma_ as his hand clutches her arm for a crawling second then falls away.

She looks down, sees how the blood is seeping across the ground, feels it through the knee of her gown, meets Erwan’s eyes and he spares her a rueful-looking moment before sitting back on his heels then astonishing her by brushing his fingers down over the bravo’s eyelids and muttering something. Their hands flash in unison to cross themselves and then Constance feels a cold ire rising in her that’s as strong as it was at the border, all that time ago, and much steadier.

Blinking hard, she rolls up to her feet, fetching out a rag and wiping her hands roughly. Marcheaux is gazing at her with what she’s afterwards able to describe as a kind of carefully constructed contempt, complete with hands on hips. All she sees now is the sneer, which fully decides her as she picks up her gloves and puts them back on slowly, walking towards him.

“Dead, is he?”

“Yes.”

“Good. One less piece of scum in the world.”

“We _needed_ him _alive_.”

“Says who?”

She takes a moment, blinking for that. Then: “You don’t really know who I am, do you?”

“Madame… Something.” He affects a kind of boredom, shrugging lightly, eyes hooded.

She takes a slow, deep breath through the nose, then out, sauntering closer. “My name is Madame d’Artagnan.”

“Oh.” The unusual name seems to ring a bell. “The Musketeer’s wife?”

“Hm. Some might say that he’s my husband. I also have care of the cadets of the regiment, and I’m the garrison’s representative to the Palace, my duties making me, essentially, an adjutant to the First Minister.” His face does drop a little at that, but he holds her gaze as she gets close. “I was once…” she lowers her voice and beckons him in and he, seemingly reflexively, leans down towards her, “the confidante of the Queen herself. I can stitch a doublet, stitch a wound,” and with barely a flicker she hauls back and lands a roundhouse punch on his jaw, causing him to stagger, cursing, “and I can stitch you!” As his hand goes to his belt, she holds the flat of her own out, peremptory, feels her eyes narrow. “Draw that and I’ll draw mine and, son, you don’t want to test who’s quicker today. You _really_ don’t.” She turns her head towards where Erwan’s sword has hissed from its sheath, keeping her eyes on Marcheaux as she calls out to the Breton over her shoulder: “That won’t be necessary. Please help your colleague tie the others. We need to get them somewhere we can secure them properly.

“I have orders to bring him to the Châtelet.” His voice is muffled and there’s a sullen rage in every syllable.

“And we will, but we need to stop, secure them, get fast word to Tréville, and eat something before we all fall over and are no more use to anyone except these villains.”

“We’re losing the light!”

“ _Exactly!_ Listen: I’ll not lose this prisoner for the sake of your _pride_ , Marcheaux.”

“God damn you, woman, I–”

“More than likely, according to some, I’m sure, but before I have to answer to Him, I have to answer to the Minister, and thereby to the King, so pick someone to tie to your horse and start heading north. I suggest we make use of that post inn – we can lock them in somewhere, collect our own horses, get some refreshments, and send a speeded courier on if they have one.” She turns, nods to Erwan. “All right?”

“Yes, Madame d’Artagnan.” His tone is very mild and his face studiedly polite, though he can never quite help that twinkle.

“I didn’t agree t–”

“ _You don’t need to!_ ” she tells Marcheaux, “you just need to follow this order, soldier, _got it?_ ”

His breathing is shallow and his colour hectic. And she absolutely cannot afford to let either herself or him think about how easily he could overpower her. She deliberately turns her back on him and marches over to the Marquis, who visibly flinches then recovers his haughty mien. In the background she hears Marcheaux ordering the Marquis’s remaining men around, and she wonders whether he’ll make them walk, tied to the horses, then decides she just needs to focus on what’s in front of her.

“Henri Coiffier de Ruzé, Marquis de Cinq-Mars, my name is Madame d’Artagnan and I am here as a representative of the First Minister of France. As his adjutant, I am, with these men of the Red Guard and Palace Guard, empowered to arraign you on the charges of treason and conspiracy to treason. You and your men will be taken to a secure location, and thereafter to the Châtelet, to await trial and sentencing. I must request that you now hand over any arms on your person.”

“This is an outrage!”

“This is a consequence of your actions,” she returns, more calmly than she feels. “Your weapons, please.”

Erwan is now at her elbow, having handed off the other bravo to Marcheaux and his mate. The Marquis, with a fulminating kind of bad grace, muttering imprecations at every step, hands over his sword and pistol to him. Then, in response to their stony stares, his main gauche. Between them, they remove the shot from his belt, a further dagger from his boot, and the cockade from his hat. Constance has seen too much damage done with pins and jewellery to let that one slide.

“I demand an advocate!”

“You may request your advocate when you are in prison, my Lord. For now,” she tells him, “your main protection is your good manners and our goodwill.” As he opens his mouth to remonstrate further, she cuts in with: “You will be permitted to ride, but you will be secured, as will your horse. Do you have any further questions?”

His rolling jaw turns out to be preparation to spit in her face. Her left arm slams into Erwan’s chest as she fishes out her clean handkerchief. It would not do to have the man arrive injured. Probably.

“Secure his horse to mine, tie his hands and have him sit his mount backwards, bootless, ankles strapped to the stirrups.” She stuffs the cloth back in her pocket. “Any further bad manners and I’ll have you laid across its back like yon corpse. Do you understand me? Your pathetic conspiracy is exposed, your design to overthrow the King and his government is broken, and you should be counting yourself _very_ lucky right now, my Lord.”

“Lucky?” He gasps as Erwan seizes him with his arms behind his back so that a hastily summoned Rayne can remove his boots with every sign of satisfaction. “ _Lucky?!_ ” as they haul him towards his horse.

“It’s a cold day, my Lord,” she tells him, strolling in their wake. “And I’m told riding naked is quite the trial at the best of times.”

Rayne laughs like a drain at that. They secure his horse to hers, boost her into her saddle, still chuckling, and load the bootless, backwards, cursing Marquis as ordered onto his, making him secure as they do so. Marcheaux eyes the whole thing sourly, but does his duty with a kind of resentful efficiency which should be quite impressive but has her more watchful than ever.

She can’t afford to take her eye off anything right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go. May be a bit late because poetry is happening (also it’s not written yet).


	5. Antérieur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some conclusions.

The weather gets nasty about an hour after sending the courier off, and Marcheaux, with a look of distaste for the rain as sharp as any cat’s, concedes that they’ll make a night of it at the inn. Constance arranges accommodation and where to send for payment, the Minister’s seal doing a grand job of smoothing things, while Marcheaux organises the watches over the prisoners. He looks astonished, then sour, when she asks to be posted with Erwan, and she realises that he’d assumed she wouldn’t be taking a watch at all.

The prisoners are secured in a small, private salon room with heavy shutters bolted over the windows. The Marquis lies on the long, padded chaise, still bootless, and he and his men have been searched again, more thoroughly this time, for anything escape- or attack-worthy, the room stripped of sharp things and glass things, their water provided in pewter and wood, their bread and meat to be eaten with their fingers.

They have the second watch after Rayne, who passes off to them cheerfully, saying “You had the right idea; no-one to talk to is fucking bor– ooh, sorry, Madame!” He barely looks it, and she waves him off with a similar mien towards the main bar of the inn, where she’s already spoken him a late dinner and where, as Erwan has it, he’s likely to find at least three new mates and some cards before he goes to bed.

“Tell you what, though – bloody weird not being able to be, you know, _openly_ friendly with him all this time. Glad that part’s over, I’ve _got_ to say.”

“You’ve done really well, Erwan. The Minister is bound to tell you how grateful he is.”

“Does ‘grateful’ mean a pay rise, though…?”

“It will if I’ve anything to do with it.”

“Well, our Captain will be pleased to get two experienced bodies back, I’m sure. Lucky if I’ll get aught more than a _well done_ from him.”

“Hmm. You ever think about the Musketeers?”

“Well, I was lucky to get this far with the Palace guard, to be fair. Wouldn’t mind doing more with the Provosts, though. Not a soldier really, see. Not in that way.”

“Well, you’ll have caught the right eyes, with this, you and Rayne. You should think about what you’d like to do. Ask for it, even.”

“Hah.” He looks down, smiling to himself a bit. “You okay, though?”

“Hmm?”

“Well, not exactly _your_ day-to-day either, today, was it?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised…” she tells him. Then: “But no, not _every_ day.”

“Hah,” he says again, rolling his shoulders and settling back against the wall, pistol in his lap. “Nice chairs, these.”

“They’re not bad.”

“Actual cushions. Reckon you charmed that lad. Ready to eat out of your hand, he was.”

“You forget, Seznec – _that_ ’s my everyday: telling young lads what to do.”

He smirks. “Mind, should have got something a bit more uncomfortable, maybe – don’t want to fall asleep on the job.” He pats his stomach for the excellent meal they’ve just finished. “Been up since before dawn, me.”

“Me too.”

“Good point.”

“I’ll ask the Minister to ask for you two to get some days off.”

He chuckles. “See, _that_ ’s your everyday as well: asking the First bloody Minister and expecting him to say yes.”

“Not _always_.”

“No?”

“No: sometimes he says ‘Maybe.’”

He chuckles soundlessly for that one, rolling his eyes. They sit in companionable silence for a while, one ear each cocked for anything amiss in the salon behind them.

He stretches again. “Do a circuit in a bit, I will. Just check the windows and that.”

“In _this_ weather?”

“What, you think de Cinq-Mars would rather go to the Châtelet than get his stockings wet?”

“You know him better than I do.”

He grimaces. “There’s two months of my life I’ll not get back. Never wanted to punch a man so much in all my life. Actually,” he says, eyes distant in recollection, “reckon there’s a couple more, that Rochefort being one. Creepy bastard.”

She grimaces in return. “Hitting him is one of the most satisfying memories I possess. You know, when I’m not actively trying to forget his existence.”

“I’m just sorry I wasn’t there.” He shakes his head. “If I’d known–”

She puts a hand on his arm. “How could you have known?”

“Yeah. Yeah, there’s that.”

“We did alright.”

“You husband in the end, wasn’t it?”

She pulls a face. “We all had a go, really.” She shakes her head to dislodge the images. “And that’s far too much Rochefort in my head, thank you very much.”

“Sorry. Like picking a wen, isn’t it?” He sniffs. “Sorry.”

“Well, you certainly backed me up today, so I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“See, he’s on my list and all.”

She’s about to ask who, then twigs. “Already? Really?”

“Yeah, something…” He shakes his head, eyes distant again. “You get a feel for it, right? The way people say things like _French_ or _us_ or _them_ or _you people_. Nothing big, nothing you can put a finger on, or call them on, just… little stuff. And yeah, I could polish out my accent a bit, get less shit from _Real Frenchmen_ but what’s the point of that? Way he looks at you and all. When you’re not looking,” he adds.

“Oh. Me?”

“Aye, you.” Erwan pulls a mean face, all narrowed eyes, that falls just this side of funny.

“Eh. He doesn’t scare me.”

“Clearly. Though next time maybe do something to keep him down for longer.”

“I needed him to be able to ride,” she tells him, deadpan.

“Oouff,” he wince-laughs. “Tell you what: never pissing you off, is it?”

“Better not, Seznec!”

He smirks, eyes going distant again. “I tell you, nearly had a fit when I heard you screaming at him not to fire. Wasn’t expecting you, somehow.”

“Who else was going to get your message?”

“Yeah, fair play. Just– yeah, still a surprise, though.”

“I like to keep people on their toes.”

He smiles, and it’s softer now. “I’m glad it was you came after us, Constance.”

“Well, I had to make sure you were alright, didn’t I? The last thing I want to do is piss Flea off now, is it?”

He smirks, head ducking. Hah.

“ _Really…_ ”

“Oh, come on, now. Not like that. Well, okay, kind of.”

She snorts. His smirk broadens.

“Anyway, she said she wanted to keep me under her eye, and–”

Constance’s shout of laughter is hastily stifled but she’s still giggling. “Sorry. Sorry.”

“You’ve a _filthy_ mind, Madame.” He’s grinning for it, even as his colour mounts a little.

“Don’t know _what_ you mean!”

“Well, keep an eye on me, then– Christ, that’s no better now, is it? I won’t be able to hear that in the same way ever again. Your fault, that is.”

“Sorry. You were telling me how you, er, got… an eyeful…?!” And she’s off again.

He’s laughing now himself. “Don’t know _what_ ’s got into you!” which, of course, sets them off again, even louder, until the inn-keeper comes through to say that they’re very honoured to be serving the First Minister, of course they are, and it’s wonderful to have the King’s soldiers here to make everyone feel safer, but if they wouldn’t mind keeping it down a bit?

They sniff and wipe their eyes and nod their way into a kind of sobriety. Constance hasn’t felt this kind of… post-mission camaraderie in, well, in years. The unmistakable sensation of: hard work done, everyone still alive, let’s be very silly now.

When she mentions this to Erwan, he nods, then says: “Well, still got to get him back, isn’t it? Get them _all_ back.” Including a corpse, currently in an outhouse, because they don’t have the time to do anything else with it.

“Mmh. Can’t see him making too much trouble.”

“No, and whether Miseryguts there knows it or not, he killed the most dangerous of his men.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, _definitely_. Doubt the other two will give us much grief.”

“Fair enough. That’s a relief.”

“Think they’ll hang?”

“I honestly don’t know. They weren’t involved in any partic– what?”

He shakes his head as if to clear it a little. “Probably nothing, just something one of, you know, Flea’s lot said.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t you start that again!”

She smirks. “No, go on.”

“Like I say – just something Tomáš said. I think it was him, anyway. Oh, I dunno, something about people watching the house, but not them, or. Or something, anyway.”

“Red Guard maybe?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“But you don’t think so.”

“Listen, it was dead vague. Or my memory’s dead vague. The others would go out at night sometimes…” his eyes go distant as he lets the rest of his breath out in a frustrated sigh. He shakes his head again. “Something to do with that, I think.”

“Surely even the Marquis gave people nights off. You know, so they could see their sweethearts…”

“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously, Constance.”

“Are you?”

He shrugs again, looks off, looks back. “I dunno – just tired and got this weird… fidgety thing? Like I can’t tell if I’m hungry or tired or thirsty or bored or full of… er… well, feeling other stuff, anyway. Um.”

She nods, puts a hand on his arm. “You’ve never really done a mission like this before have you?”

“No. I mean, that’s half why they chose me – just a normal guard, see? Keen, but nothing special. No, I know that look – not talking myself down, is it, just saying how I presented to Himself.” He grins, sharp and amused. “Rayne got to act the argumentative one. Good as a play, sometimes – him saying the opposite of what we wanted de Cinq-Mars to do, and he’d swear blind he was thwarting him in his purpose, even if he’d barely finished saying it the other way around. Didn’t overdo it, _obviously_ : just enough that it was useful. Cunning as a box of foxes, that one. Good man.” And he looks a bit sad for a moment, then shakes it off.

She squeezes his arm gently; she knows this fizzing, swirling feeling from the inside, has seen it a score of times on d’Artagnan and the others (well, in Athos’s own way, obviously… and she heats to think of the last time they all came to the end of a mission together before squashing that ruthlessly).

She takes a soft breath. “It’s been a long couple of months and today was all sorts of intense. Make sure you drink plenty of water, eat plenty of food tomorrow, and sleep soundly after this shift is done – we need you sharp tomorrow. Then you can fall over in bed for a well-earned rest.”

He groans softly. “Bloody lovely, that. Never ridden so hard in my– Oh, for fu–” He claps his hand over his mouth, eyes rolling emphatically as she giggles.

“And here I was just going to say ‘Or fall over in _someone’s_ bed’ and you made it even–”

“You are a terrible, _terrible_ woman.”

“I almost wish I could deny that…”

He shakes his head, smirking. “Fine, okay? Fine. Yeah, we, er, she, Flea and I, we–”

“It’s okay,” she assures him. “Honestly, you don’t need to tell me. It’s none of my business.”

“Didn’t expect anything like that, though.” His eyes go a little distant, voice softer, spilling from him. “And her… well, they call her the Queen, don’t they? Bit intimidating, she was, at first.”

“Yeah, she is.”

“But you’ve, you know – you and the Queen…”

“ _What?!_ ”

He gives her a very curious look. “I mean: you were her confidante, you know? Part of the Court. Why would Flea–?”

“Oh! Oh, no, first time I met her – Flea, that is, well, actually either, I suppose – I was still just Constance Bonacieux, draper’s wife.”

“Oh. Oh, right. Stands to reason,” he says, rolling his eyes for his own naïvity, “you were something _before_. Not exactly–”

“Not a Lady, no.”

“Wasn’t going to say _that_.”

“Wouldn’t care if you _did_ ,” though Proper Constance scrabbles at her cupboard door for the notion, “It’s just…” she waves her fingers, grasping for the word, “you know, a _fact_.”

“Mmh.”

“No noble blood in _my_ veins. Or my husband’s, for that matter.” They both share a kind of regretful wince for that. Sometimes she wishes she lamented Bonacieux more, but being his wife was never more than… a job to her.

She says this to him, and it’s like a small weight’s shifted, somehow. He nods. Wrinkles his nose. “God. Yeah. Can’t imagine. Well, I can _imagine_ , but. Yeah. Bit bollocks, really.”

She agrees. Being a woman in a world built for men? _Definitely_ a bit bollocks.

“Besides, being a Musketeer is more like a vocation for you, isn’t it? What?”

She’s opened her mouth on the reflexive _I’m not a Musketeer_ , but that’s just ludicrous now, isn’t it? “Never actually fired a musket,” she tells him, deadpan.

“Well now, probably ought to fix that, hadn’t you?”

“I’ll get on it when I get back. Add it to the list.”

He chuckles, mimes scribbling onto something in his palm. “‘Thwart international conspiracy,’” mimes crossing it through. “‘Chase down renegade Marquis on horseback,’” cross through. “‘Punch annoying bastard,’” cross through. “‘Return prisoners to Paris,’ and ‘Learn to shoot a musket,’ anything else? Oh, wait: ‘Give hard-working guard a hard time about his–”, ow!” he rubs his arm ostentatiously, grinning all the while.

“I wouldn’t dare give you a hard time – she might come after me.”

“No chance – she’d send a, er, _courtier_ , drag you back to the Court, isn’t it?”

She nods. “Good point.” A pause. “What I wouldn’t give to have her network, though…”

“It’s a hell of a thing,” he agrees.

Good job, too. That ragged girl found her more quickly than she’d have believed possible, had she not seen the Court of Miracles’ people-finding in action before.

She thinks of the winter ahead and resolves to do something about at least one child’s coldness over the coming months. She sighs for the idea – knows it’s like spitting in a thunderstorm. Maybe blankets, then. Blankets can be shared, after all, and are simple to do in bulk.

They both lean back against the wall and, after a while, Erwan starts to hum. She listens with pleasure until he goes for his self-appointed round to check the windows, shrugging into an oiled cloak as he goes, takes the time in his absence to do some stretches, remembering how tomorrow is going to ache her legs and back, remembering Porthos telling her how Musketeer work is four-fifths waiting around, with Aramis adding that most of it is finding things to fill that time. She shakes her head with a fond smile for the joshing about ‘cleaning your weapons, mate,’ and Aramis’s (mostly) good-natured smile and light punch to his arm.

The hours slide by in idle conversation, stretches, circuits, silence, humming, until the silent Red Guard relieves them with a blank-faced nod and they head for their respective beds.

*

###  **Friday 6th November 1637: afternoon, The Louvre Palace, Paris**

“Are you _sure_ about this, Your Majesty?”

“Quite sure, Tréville.”

“You don’t think it would be better if–”

“I dare swear, Minister, that you’re the only man in France who feels he can question my decisions!”

Well, the only one anymore…

He nods. “Your Majesty, I believe that ensuring that I have properly understood your instructions is an important part of my role.”

“Oh. Yes, well, quite so. Anyway, my mind is made up. I will… observe, but not– I– I.” He closes his eyes, takes a couple of shallow breaths, then clenches his jaw. “It’s best. Yes, for the best.”

He gives a short bow. “Very well, Your Majesty, I shall deliver it myself, in your presence, tomorrow.”

“Good, good. Thank you.” Brow twitching minutely, jaw stiff, he tells him: “I must be seen to be both just and impartial in this.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

*

###  **Saturday 7th November 1637: morning, The Châtelet Prison Main Courtroom, Paris**

“Henri Coiffier de Ruzé, Marquis de Cinq-Mars, it is my duty to tell you that you have been found guilty of treason against the Crown, for colluding with France’s enemies both here and abroad, to depose her rightful King. The King has passed sentence that, for this betrayal, you are to be executed. As befits your noble status, you are to be beheaded along with your confederate, the magistrate François Auguste de Thou, four days’ hence, on the morning of 11th November.” Shouts rise in the gallery: _He did nothing wrong! How is this justice?! De Thou is innocent!_ He raises his volume a little, dispassionate but firm: “Until that time, you will continue to be detained at the Châtelet.”

Later, because the King’s business cannot be confined to workdays, especially at the moment, he tells Bouthillier that, to the Marquis’s credit, while white and shaking, he did not make any outcry himself at the sentence, jaw set, giving a small nod of acknowledgement. The Superintendent remarks that this may be some small comfort to his family, and offers to pass this news along for him. Tréville tells him, with a small smile, that this is a very kind suggestion he will consider seriously, and makes a note to this effect, much to the Sieur’s mild and ironic amusement, as intended.

He does not tell the Superintendent how the Marquis looked close to, so different from his accustomed debonair appearance, still dressed in the clothes they caught him in. He will not tell him how ragged his hands appeared, as though he’d been scratching at hard surfaces for two days. 

He does not tell him of the thin, high sound he heard as the convicted man was taken away, that reminded him of nothing so much as a desperately wounded animal. He cannot even be sure from whose throat it came, and it faded, soon enough, into the general stew of sounds typified by even the more civilised sections of the Châtelet as the court seethed with speculation. And he does not pass any remark on the stifled look on the King’s face, the shine of his eyes, the tightness of his fists on the chair’s arms, and how fast His Majesty moved from his seat once sentencing was done.

The pair of them settle down to the business of discussing the finances required for the King’s Parade, as it’s being called, this coming Wednesday, and nothing further is said, for the rest of that sober, punctilious meeting, of any of the many sentences being enacted that week, and in the weeks to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [François Auguste de Thou](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fran%C3%A7ois_Auguste_de_Thou), magistrate and manuscript collector, is barely a footnote in the tale of de Cinq-Mars, more often described by his relationship to other people than in his own right, as far as I can tell (when he’s mentioned at all – _I_ certainly forgot about the poor fellow!). He was apparently an accomplice, and fairly highly placed in the Palace as, essentially, its Chief Librarian. He is said to have known about the plot and, despite having apparently done nothing actively towards it, was deemed guilty by sheer dint of not having reported the conspiracy.
> 
> Weird nugget I discovered in the course of this: the word _fact_ had only just started being used to mean "Thing that is true" in the 1630s – until then, it had meant "action".
> 
> One of my _many_ WIPs in the background to this behemoth and in the same universe, is something set between seasons 1 and 2, and it’s alluded to here a little. I’m determined to have more Flea (oh, hush, you!), even if it’s incidental – something to look forward to, at least for me!
> 
> I have no idea where Erwan came from. First he was an attractive element for [Constance’s DIY assuaging of appetite](rel=), then a [scandalous exchange of twinkle in a corridor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16583531), by which point he was named, and then the [inside man for a surveillance job](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23930074). Along with Bolloré (who sprung fully-formed into the part of regimental bard), he forms part of my determination to get as many characters who sound Welsh to my inner ear into the narrative.
> 
> My pre-written buffer is now depleted, so there will be a short delay (hopefully only a couple of weeks) before the next installment.

**Author's Note:**

> As with many of the Musketeers pieces I’ve used Real History™ for, I’ve had to bodge things a bit as, well, a lot of the conspiracies of the time were to overthrow Richelieu, and were in response to events later down the line. So this uncovering echoes something from about five years hence, and is masterminded by Tréville, obviously (with a little help from quarters savoury and unsavoury).


End file.
